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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23433034">Crashing In</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAllFlyHigh/pseuds/WeAllFlyHigh'>WeAllFlyHigh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Body Jumping [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adventure, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Death of OCs, France Canada and Romano appear only in flashbacks, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interrogation, Nazis, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death, read relationships as you want</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:02:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,464</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23433034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAllFlyHigh/pseuds/WeAllFlyHigh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>All America wants to do is beat some Nazis, save the world, and have some fun. Unfortunately, they're trapped behind enemy lines in a new body with no way home. This...wasn't the plan but hey it's nothing a hero- heroine can't handle.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Body Jumping [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Wake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I know it's frowned upon to do this before a fic even starts but I want to be honest about the topics in here. This fic focuses on the occupation of France and the escape lines that defied the Nazi's. So at a lot of events are based on real events.</p>
<p>And that brings us to triggers. There will be violence in this story, it will not be explicit. It is my hope that this fic comes across as a story of fighting back and being brave against tremendous odds. But it's not all going to be badassery and snarky jokes.</p>
<p>The closest we're getting to rape will be the implication that if you slept with a German life would a bit easier. Rape is a serious crime that did happen during the war and still happens today. No judgement on people writing stories that contain it, but to include it here because APH America is in a female body feels cheap.</p>
<p>The holocaust will be mentioned in so far as terrible rumors and persecution against the its victims. It is something that we should talk about but I'm dealing with a pretty specific time period and going by the rule of who knew what when, the inclusion of the concentration camps and similar events would be just to ramp up the tension and I don't want to be disrespectful. (To be clear the Allies knew about the concentration camps before they were liberated.)</p>
<p>All that being said, hello. Before we actually begin, I just want to say that for each historical fic I write I do at least a couple hours of research. For this one I did hours upon hours (but am by no means an expert). I kept a list of all my research materials so if you find this interesting or want to know more about something mentioned here, please don't hesitate to ask for that list. (It includes many forms of media if a podcast, comic, or video if that is more your jam.) Seriously, if you haven't heard of an app called hoopla, look into it. You just need a library card and you can borrow so many ebooks, audiobooks, movies, exct… (I don't know if it's US only.) It made research for this so much easier and affordable.</p>
<p>That's all for now. As always reviews are always appreciated even if it's criticisms. If you think I could do better, especially given the topics in here please let me know.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>1943</em>
</p>
<p>America wakes up with a jolt. He moves to rise, but his hand slips and his arm gives out under him. He flails. Then he falls and crashes into the ground. There's something on top of him. It isn't heavy but it is everywhere. He tries to roll to away but only tangles himself tighter. He thrashes on the floor, kicking his legs until the fabric shifts and tears. He lets out a laugh that is more air than anything else. Hair rushes into his mouth and he spits it out.</p>
<p>He stumbles to his feet. The sheet's still clinging to his legs. The floor is cold under his feet. His legs, his everything really, are still weak and heavy. They flex their fingers as feeling and knowledge return. Their inhuman strength is still out of reach. He knows it will return but it makes him nervous. It will take a few days. Until then, he has to be careful.</p>
<p>He hates dying. It is always disorienting. One minute you're minding your own business, and the next you're somewhere else, maybe hundreds of miles away in a new body, wearing who knows what. He's heard some stories from other nations of spending a full day jumping from body to body, never having a moment to adjust to one because a battle had killed so many. Honestly, he has to wonder if that wasn't half the reason for staking a body back in the day. And, finding your way back home was never easy. Not in the least because an unfamiliar man bursting into the highest offices of government tends to spook some people, and those people often have guns or swords or something else that could land you in another body all over again.</p>
<p>America sets a hand on the table he had fallen from. His legs are still unsteady and a little stiff. Rigor Mortis hasn't set in yet, they always have to be freshly dead anyways, but it might as well have. He's practically freezing. He shoves his hands under his arm pits and freezes.</p>
<p>The nation blinks in surprise. He takes a deep breath feeling his chest rise and then he lets it out slowly. He looks down.</p>
<p>Alright then.</p>
<p>Ok, they will admit it, not to anyone else though, they can get a little carried away, caught up in ideas and plans for the future or what they were doing now to make those dreams reality. And maybe that comes across as oblivious.</p>
<p>So maybe they could have handled this a little better. It would be more dignified if they'd taken a moment before trying to spring up and into action. But it isn't every day they died. (And to be fair it was very confusing to be flying mid barrel roll and then wake up wrapped in an old sheet.)</p>
<p>America didn't die very often. No matter how much their bosses criticized their diet or England scolded their recklessness, they had died way less than most nations. They'd kept their original body for over a hundred years, that was more than half their life. So comparably, they died way less than others. (France had died like six times during the Reign of Terror. And they still bitched about how short their hair had been for all of the two weeks they had had that body.) And yeah, Canada had never lost his first one, but it wasn't like it was a competition and if you counted fatal wounds than Canada would have a death count too. But that would mean that America's would also be a bit higher, and none of that mattered because it wasn't a competition.</p>
<p>Their current body, well now it was the last body they had had, it looked a lot like their first. It had darker coloring and maybe was a bit stockier. But it had served him well. It was probably blown to bits now considering it had been too broken to heal. Maybe their fuel tank had been hit. This body, well, they a set hand over their chest absently, this one felt very different.</p>
<p>They look around the room. They don't think it is a morgue, not an official one at least. It's dark with no windows and smells too musty to be anything but a basement. The room is quiet as a grave except for their own breath. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Who would want to be locked up with a corpse? It is overwhelmingly dusty in here. They can see every footprint on the floor. They follow them to a patch of dust-free ground, leaving another set bare footprints behind. They reach for the door as a flash of color catches their eye.</p>
<p>They bring their hand closer to their face. Green. It's chipped but still clinging to their neatly trimmed nails. Their lips turn downward at the sight. That wouldn't do. They toss the idea of blue or white, but no their nails should be red, either a bright shade or dark like blood. Red is just classic and bold. It's patriotic even. With that decision, they take a deep breath and prepare to make another one.</p>
<p>They slowly open the door. They peek their head out. No one. It is just as quiet as in the cellar. It's nearly as dark too. A thin line of slivery light lay on the floor to the right. They look around as they slip in. There's a barred window perched over a sink. To the left of the window there's a bare spice rack and behind that a set of wooden of chairs and a table.</p>
<p>Ok, so this is definitely a kitchen, which probably means they're in a proper house. America moves slowly and silently. Walk quietly and carry a big stick, they think as they go from the kitchen to a sitting room. Sure, they don't have a stick or the strength to swing it, but it's a work in progress.</p>
<p>They creep from the kitchen into a hallway. There's a set of stairs to the right and a door at the far end in front of them. They tilt their head. There's an old rug sitting just in front of the door. Shoes line the wall. Probably an exit. They could make a run for it. But the only thing they are wearing is a long shirt, and it only goes as far as their knees. Plus, there might be blood in their hair or something. They should make sure they didn't look like death warmer over first. Or they may as well wrap themselves up in an American flag and walk straight up to the nearest German officer. <em>Surely</em> that would be just as an effective means of evading Germany's attention.</p>
<p>Slowly they test the stairs. America keeps low, pressing a foot down and listening for a creak, and then moving as quickly as possible, which is still rather slow. They make sure to place their feet as close to the wall as possible to lessen the creaking.</p>
<p>At the top of the stairs they can finally hear sounds of life. Snoring slips out of the door. America silently curses, biting their lip to hold the words in. While waking up in an empty house is very creepy and suspicious, it would have made things easier. There is a possibility that whoever is sleeping could wake up and if they did…well they're probably a family member or close friend and there is no easy way of getting out of that. (Although they suppose there is also a small chance that the sleeping person is a murder and if America had to lose this body to death, well at least they wouldn't have wasted much time.)</p>
<p>America listens hard to the two doors nearest to him. Nothing. They pivot to the left first.</p>
<p>Moonlight spills onto gleaming tile flooring. They can see a mirror from the door but not their reflection. They frown in the mirror's direction. Oh, it is tempting. It would just take a moment to examine their new body. They allow themselves an angry sigh and close the door. They flick a lock of hair away from their face and turn to the last quiet door.</p>
<p>This room is just as dark as the rest of the house. America glances at the door down the hall as he slips into the bedroom. They pause and strain their ears once more. A smirk slips onto their face. They are so fucking stealthy. England should be jealous.</p>
<p>An empty bed is pressed against the wall. A small dresser sits beside it. Little bottles and stationery are scattered across it in little groups. A large mirror reflects the bottles. There is also a flashlight, a picture frame, a collection of papers, and other objects. America walks over and picks up the flashlight. There is no way they can turn away from something so useful. Speaking of useful… raiding the closet is their best bet.</p>
<p>The wardrobe door refuses to open. America leans back on their heels and squints at the door through the dark. They see missing flecks of paint at the top corner of the door. They press a hand there and dig their fingers in. The door opens with a low creak. Shoes line the bottom and dresses hang above. They browse through each dress, occasionally pausing to judge one or another. This body had had good taste. Even though some of the dresses were obviously older or had been recut, the tailoring had been done neatly and they look great. The stitches are all straight and sturdy. New trim has been added to cover old worn hems. Resourceful, America thinks. A little war didn't stop all life. They feel a little pride and fondness for who their body had been.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, their good work causes a small problem. Walking through towns where someone could recognize this body is difficult, doing it through possible enemy territory is risky, and doing it in a dress that could make men forget about pressing orders is less than ideal.</p>
<p>They settle for a green one tucked towards the back. Clearly not the most loved. The sleeves are longer than most of the dresses and the material worn, but if they have to sleep in a ditch it will be the best option. America holds the most practical boots to their chest and moves them on to the bed. It is neatly made but wrinkles linger in one spot. Someone has been sitting there, probably trying to hold the memories of when the dead girl had last used this room before it lost all the little traces of her.</p>
<p>They slip the gown off the hanger and pull on their new old clothes. They look again at the dresser. Their body is nothing but a dark shape in the room. America forces their eyes away. Their hands drift over the objects on the dresser. They slip a hand mirror and a tube of lipstick into their pockets. They pick up the papers and bring each one close to their face. One is a little notebook filled with handwritten paragraphs and sketches. Another is a couple sheets with deep creases down their center. These are also covered in handwriting and smell faintly of roses. The last set of papers is probably what America is looking for. It is all thick typeset and has several shapes stamped on it. They tuck the stack of papers and the notebook under their arm. They leave the change sitting in a small dish. It would have helped immensely, and it would have been too cruel.</p>
<p>As well prepared as possible, America is ready to go. They press their ear to the door, listening for the snoring. Then they retrace their steps. At the door they gather a dark brown and a matching cap that hung on the rack. They pull both on and tuck strands of soft hair back behind their ears.</p>
<p>England had told him once about a vampire panic he had caused many years ago by doing this, making it obvious that the dead had risen. Not that any amount of deception would have worked this time. Waiting to be buried is risky and embalming is too common now a days and there is no time to waste in a war.</p>
<p>America eases the door shut, careful to make sure it is silent.</p>
<p>There are no road signs outside the house. Nor are there any lights of civilization to follow. It isn't unexpected with the air raids, but it doesn't help America make any decisions. There aren't even any stars in the sky to give them a little light. So, America walks from the front door to the road. The crunching of gravel under their feet is the only sound to be heard. Standing in the center of the dirt road they spin around; once, twice, and they walk forward</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Walk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you see italics it's a flashback.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>PART TWO: A Walk</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>The streets of Paris were crowded, but France’s guards stood between the crowds and themselves. They had been desperate to escape the prying and politicking at court of a time. Or rather, America had been desperate, and France had been having a grand old time, but had humored America. They pretended not to acknowledge that, France because he could be a good host when he felt like it and America was too young to risk being seen flinching at any of it. Church had provided them with an escape.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If they were supposed to return immediately after services, no one made them. They walked along the banks of the Seine. Paris was so much bigger, so much older than anything America had in his lands. He could not decide between looking at the city itself or the people inhabiting it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>France’s arm pressed into America’s side. He leaned down closer to the young nation. His lips brushed America’s ear as he spoke. “So young America, what did you confess? Anything about me?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A blush broke out across America’s face. He quickly took two steps away. “No! Of course not!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was not, strictly speaking, Catholic. A fact that no one had pointed out when France first mentioned going to confession. He had enough of them living in his lands that he knew the basics of the motions, but he did not really know what to confess. Not being human made it a little more complicated, probably. He thought it should. A sin was a sin regardless, but it felt like being human should matter when counting sins. So he had not mentioned his revolution and had rambled instead about sweets until he had run out of things to say. The priest had admonished him for gluttony and assigned several Hail Mary’s, which America thought was silly. He thought that he and the priest had both left disappointed by the experience. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>France ruffled America’s hair affectionately. America’s hand instantly flew to his hair to try and return some semblance of order. He didn’t need France ruining what little respectability he could pull off. Not that he cared very much but, he had left his powdered wig and his best jacket in his trunks that morning. Compared to France, who was covered in silks, lace, and jewels, he looked like an underdressed servant. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>France laughed at him. “Ah America, have I flustered you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>America pouted back at him. “No, you have not.” He turned his nose up in a way that was definitely not like anything England would do. “What do I have to be embarrassed about?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I did not say embarrassed,” France said with a smirk.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Same thing.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, not at all America. But do not worry. You will learn.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Stop teasing me. It’s not like-” America stopped at the first peel of a bell ringing out. He turned his head to look back at Notre Dame. The bells chimed again. America’s eyes slipped closed. The crowds fell away and were easily replaced by another in his mind. The fine silks became soft worn cotton. The French surrounding him faded into English. For a moment, his heart picked up. Thrumming like it had when he stood by Franklin’s elbow as delegates poured into the Court House. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You like the bells.” France was watching him intently.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>America felt a blush return to his cheeks. He turned his face away. “Yeah.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“They remind you of your home?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>America turned back to France with a soft smile. “They remind me of liberty.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“How poetic.” France smiled at America, it was only a little patronizing. “How does it feel?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was just a question. No harm in that. It was even an expected question to ask. America had officially become a nation a few short years ago and they had worked together to obtain his freedom for years before. Had it all been worth it; all the work he had to do now, all the work he had done, all those that had died? He was surprised that France had not asked him that before.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But that wasn’t what France was asking now either. His voice was pitched too low for an innocent question. France’s eyes had a gleam to them that America recognized. He had seen it in his own eyes months before his Son’s of Liberty had thrown the first crate of tea into the harbor. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>France was thinking about it, liberty. But it was only a thought. It wasn’t the spark of revolution. Not yet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>America glanced towards their guards. They were far more focused on the crowds around them than on France’s seemingly usual flirtations. His gaze moved around them into the throngs of people. There was a child running down the street in torn trousers. A woman lifted a beaten bowl up toward every passerby. The richly clad gentry fluttered feathered fans and laughed loudly. No one paid the downtrodden a glance nor dropped a single coin in their dish.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>America’s attention returned to France. He was still watching, waiting hungrily. “It is like nothing you have ever tasted,” America whispered. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps you will know someday.</em>
</p><hr/><p>America wakes up just as cold as they had been when they took their first breath in this body. They stand slowly, using the tree behind them for balance. Their legs are just as stiff, and their neck is hurting now too. They slowly stretch out their limbs. Their back pops repeatedly. They keep their ears sharply scanning for any human noises.</p><p>They have no idea what curfew is in this part of wherever they are. They are sure that there is one and that they have definitely broken it at some point since they awoke. The challenge is not to get caught now.</p><p>They run their fingers through their hair dislodging any leaves or sticks that have congregated there. Then they briskly brush down their coat and jacket. They don’t have to make their capture easy. They’re likely in enemy territory.</p><p>Ok, recognizance time. America leans against the tree that had served as their bed and withdraws the contents of their pockets. They set aside the small notebook. They open the collection of papers bound together with thin twine. They pull on the neat bow holding them and start the investigation.</p><p>They scan the first document, their eyes go automatically to the small picture in the corner, their body’s picture. So that’s what they look like<em>.</em> They run their fingers over their hair again. This time really taking the time to feel it. It’s thick and wavy like Canada’s, no curls though. And now that they’re not in the dark, they can see that it is blonde. The black and white photo hides the color of her eyes. Not bad, they think briefly. Cute nose. they’ll take the time to examine their new body in more detail later.</p><p>A variety of red ink has been stamped over the documents. Their eyes flicker over the words neatly printed and handwritten on their body’s identification papers. That is not English. Well damn. England is definitely never going to let them live this down. They’ve been shot down in enemy territory and stranded in a new body with no backup and no way of getting the calvary to come. Well if they weren’t the hero…heroine they would be well and truly fucked.</p><p>America bows her head and squeezes their fist as they launch it into the air. It doesn’t matter that no one can see them strike a determined hero stance. The important thing here is to reaffirm their hero status to themselves and carry on. With a bright smile America returns to her investigation.</p><p>So what language is this? She’s picked up a few over the years, but that has mostly been from their immigrants as they wondered through neighborhoods. She can talk casually to people but her written vocabulary is limited to street signs and menus. The one exception to this informal education was during The Revolution when she was taught French and German, and they had used that mostly to yell insults and taunts at England at the time. And even though he would never admit it America was sure Canada appreciated it now.</p><p>America tapped their foot rapidly. Ok, they needed context clues. What are they looking at? Right under their picture there are two large stamps of color. They depict a portrait style Greek lady-head and list a number followed by Francs. So French, right? Their body had French issued papers, so they’re probably in France, or had been coming from there.</p><p>What else could they learn? America taps their cheek. Frankly, thank god for England being invaded so much back in the day. He had stolen or been forced to use so many languages that a lot of the words looked similar their foreign language counterpoints. She knew most of what should be on these papers and pieced together what it probably is from there.</p><p>Last Name:  Beaulieu</p><p>First Name: Jean</p><p>Date of Birth: 12 October 1925</p><p>Nationality: French</p><p>America feels wicked delight burst up at that. French? Oh, that can’t be true. Obviously, their body, Jean, had gotten her hands on a forgery. Or maybe she had made them herself. There’s no way to tell, unless they run into one of her body’s acquaintances that knows the truth and America would rather not. They like the second idea better, their new body resisting their nations foes in any way she can until her dying breath and then giving herself to her country. Yeah, that sounds much cooler, like something Hollywood would dream up.</p><p>They flip through the other papers. They have to memorize as much of it as they can. They doubt they’ll be made to recite every detail, but hey, a little precaution never hurt.</p><p>Jean Beaulieu. America closes their eyes. They roll the name around on their tongue. They think about what a person named Jean would be like. A leader, they decide. Someone who knows what they want and how to keep what they have. A good person, polite maybe. But not a person like America.</p><p>They’re going to need a new name, something a little more fitting. But what? Regardless of which body they’re in, they have always been Alfred. There’s never been a reason to consider another. Although they guess they could just keep Alfred. They could say it was their father’s name, their parents had expected a boy, and please call me Alfie. No. No one is ever going to take them seriously without some convincing and that won’t do. They’re a rising world power, they need instant respect.</p><p>So, they definitely need a new name. Something beginning with an A like America. Ahhh. Alice? No that sounds too British. They could already hear the Alice in Wonderland jokes. Alison? They could keep the nickname Al. But did that sound lazy? It wasn’t this hard to pick out a name the first time. Amy? That’s kind of short. Maybe? Did they have to pick out a new middle name too? Fuck. They are keeping the same initials they have way too many anagrammed belongings to just throw them all out.</p><p>America glances at the sky. The sun has steadily been rising. She tucks her papers back into her coat pocket. It should definitely be past curfew by now. The problem of her new name will just have to wait. She emerges from the small grove of trees and returns to the road. She promptly continues her journey.</p><p>Gradually the dirt country road changes. At first, she is all alone. Then there is a middle-aged woman a riding a bike with an empty basket tied between her handlebars. A little bit later she sees an old man rocking on a chair in front his house. Slowly more people and bikes appear. It’s small town traffic slowly building up to more.</p><p>She can’t help but watch the travelers. Ever since Pearl Harbor she’s been bounced from training grounds to battlefields to war rooms and back to a battlefield. She doesn’t know how long it’s been since she’s seen a child toddling after his mother while running errands. She greedily watches now as a mother walks quickly a few feet in front of her and with a certain brisk stiffness of stress. She never takes more than one eye away from her son. Her dress is faded and worn, and her son’s pants are carefully, lovingly patched.</p><p>America hums a little tune under her breath. It’s something half remembered buzzing out of the radio in a crowded English pub. She catches bits of the crowd’s quiet conversations. There are no more potatoes to be had anywhere and they have quite a few tips for stretching the laundry soap. She looks up at the sky. She can hear birds in the distance. She takes a deep breath of country air. It’s nice to know that life goes on even in a world like this.</p><p>The crowd’s chatter gradually dies down as the traffic thickens. America peers around shoulders trying to determine the cause of the slowdown. It’s a checkpoint. A couple German soldiers stand fully armed and at attention but clearly bored. Which is fair, America muses, she’d always hated guard duty and it had taken too many years for her bosses to abandon the idea of assigning her to it.</p><p>The mother America had been watching presents a packet of papers to one soldier. Her hands barely shake. The papers crinkle in his hands. The soldier smiles down at the boy and he stares back with wide eyes. The boy tucks himself behind his mother’s skirt. The soldier’s eyes flicker over the papers before returning them.</p><p>America straightens her back. She knows how to disappear into the woods, how to fire on lines of men without giving them so much as a hint towards where she was. They know how to travel by the stars over open empty prairies They know how to hunt and plow and scavenge. They do not know how to blend into a crowd.</p><p>They don’t try to.</p><p>Here goes nothing, she thinks. At the very least they probably won’t shoot heer in the middle of the street if this doesn’t work.</p><p> “Vie a la France,” she whispers under her breath. She pays extra attention to how the sounds feel in her mouth. It’s been forever since she’s spoken French. It tastes thick and strange on her tongue. It will have to do.</p><p>She beams and puts a slight skip in her step. She angles for the solider that had smiled at the boy. “Guten morgen,” she chirps up at him. Her accent is all wrong. She’s learned German and French, but she can’t put one accent on the other. She’s not even sure she’s managed to hide her American accent. She’s never had to hide it before. But her voice is sweet and sunny, and she continues on in French without a breath. “It’s a beautiful day.”</p><p>She flutters her eyes at him as she sets her papers in his hands. The soldier almost laughs but bashfully manages to contain it. Instead he smiles down at her. Her grin grows. The poor boy doesn’t know what to do with a friendly face.</p><p>America flinches as a hand lands heavily on her shoulder. “He doesn’t know what you’re saying<strong>,” </strong>the other solider says from behind her.</p><p>“Uh oh,” America stutters. The second soldier’s expression is smooth and cool. He’s completely in control and his attention is fixed on her. She recognizes that look and knows instantly that she won’t be able to control him as easily. She bites their bottom lip. She glances at the soldier still holding her papers. His smile is gone. His head starts to bow towards her papers.</p><p>She looks back at the second solider. His hand drifts lower and lower. She doesn’t want him to look into her eyes and see the anger in them, so she directs her words to his chin. She can feel the eyes of the crowd on her. No one intervenes. “I should have realized. Could you…” She presses a hand to her lips. She laughs like she’s embarrassed. “Could you tell him that he has lovely eyes?”</p><p>The soldier squeezes her shoulder and repeats her words in German with a few additional teasing. The other man goes red and shoves her papers back at her. She smiles at them both. The second solider laughs.  “Have a good day, Mademoiselle,” he says while patting her on the back. She tucks her papers into her coat and continues down the road.</p><hr/><p>Two men loom above Africa. Between the two of them they are ripping the continent apart. One of the men has a huge cigar hanging precariously from his mouth and the other has a small round pair of glasses perching on his nose, Churchill and Roosevelt. America heart clenches and her hands shake. Bastards!</p><p>Notre Dame’s bells ring out. It somehow makes the whole thing worse. The Germans had invaded and were occupying France but do worry everyone, everything’s the same. Nothing is any different now that we have German friends staying with us. Oh no! And if anything is troubling you, if life is any worse it’s the Allies fault. They’re not fighting to free you, they only want your territories. Our good friend Hitler hasn’t razed the Paris to the ground so we must be grateful. We are at peace.</p><p>God, she couldn’t wait to kill some Nazi’s. She swears the first thing she is going to do when she gets back will be to jump in a plane and not stop shooting for weeks. But until then she is going to have to satisfy herself in other ways.</p><p>She keeps her head held high and her steps as even and unhurried as possible. She brushes the hair on the top of her head like she’s smoothing it down. As she brings her hand down, she snatches the poster off the wall. She crushes it quickly in her fist and shoves it into her coat pocket. She’ll use it for toilet paper or something later.</p><p>She sees red every time she catches sight of this absurd propaganda and it’s everywhere in Paris. She’d like to tear down every poster she comes across, but she can’t afford to. It’s a risky move and she doesn’t have the time. Every moment she’s here is one she can’t spend with her men actually getting something done.</p><p>Jobs are hard to come by. And as much as she would like to throw caution to the wind and swim across the channel, odds are she’d just end up in a new body further away. She needs to get some funding before she does anything else.</p><p>Unless, of course, she comes across another poster when no one is watching.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There may be a delay in the next couple chapters because they're being stubborn.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Lieutenant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Probably taking a break this coming week to work on other projects.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She finds a little apartment over a clothing shop. It was used to hold storage, but they don’t have enough goods to fill it right now. And since everyone can use some extra money now, her landlord hasn’t asked any of the questions she can’t answer. They’d still looked at her papers. Apparently, Jean had been a student from the country and that waved a little of the suspicion away.</p><p>The apartment is cramped while still being depressingly empty. She has no pictures to put on her dusty blue walls and nothing to fill the few pieces of furniture with. The temperature in the room constantly fluctuates between being miserably hot in the afternoon and freezing at nights and the restrictions on fuel mean that there is never any hot water when America starts her morning routine.</p><p> </p><p>It’s in that yellow apartment bathroom that America finally gets to examine her new body.</p><p>Her eyes latch onto her new reflection. Blue as blue as a clear summer sky above miles and miles of fields look back at her. Her hair is different, back to blonde but not the wheaten shade their first body had. This is a bright gold and has a wave to it that’s similar to Canada’s. The cowlick is gone or is being held down by the weight of her hair. Her nose is different now too, more button like. Her chin is gentler, and she can’t be sure, but she thinks her cheekbones are sharper than before. She traces her hands over the curves that she had only known about from how her clothes hugged her. She is beautiful.</p><p>America grins at her reflection and flutters her eyelids. She can work with this.</p><p>But she’s still just adjusting. Sure, her body remembers how to do a lot of things but taking care of it is harder than she had expected. Shaving especially is proving to be a bit difficult. The theory is the same as when she was male and she doesn’t have any problems with most of her legs, other than the lack of any creams to help her with the task. She keeps nicking her knees and really has no idea what to do with the place between her legs.</p><p>She isn’t even sure if she should be shaving some places. She tries to remember where French women shave or even where German women do, after all with her cliental it could be believable that she had picked up the habit, but she isn’t sure what they do either. She copies the women around her as best as she can. Every time they complain about using tea bags to their legs and muse on how much they miss having real stockings America nods her head.</p><p>Not even a month in a woman’s body and she is craving similar luxuries. While she might never get used to having pointed sticks and brushes near her eyes, America finds herself daydreaming about nail polish. It’s like that one glimpse of green, long gone by now, has infected her and the desire only grows. She wants a bright red, like Old Glory and the blood of her enemies. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to get any in England, but she is going to search high and low. Perhaps she’s adjusting to being a woman faster than she’s giving herself credit for?</p><p>It’s a first for them and America can’t resist wondering about that. Is it really as simple as this being the closest vessel to hold them? No one has ever been able to say for sure. So maybe it really does mean something? Is this a turning point for them? This is the first time America has gotten a new body since women got the right to vote. Does that factor in here? They have to admit, it isn’t a bad idea. In fact, they like the thought.</p><p>-</p><p>She’s had worse jobs before. Sure, the list is a short one, but Prussia constantly made her dig latrines during her revolution so that should count for several. Technically, this isn’t even a bad job. The pay Is great. Her boss has provided her fashionable little apron and she can wear whatever she wants under it as long as it’s clean and fitting. They’re allowed to accept gifts, although the Germans don’t seem to be overly generous with their tips. They expect pretty smiles and good food with plenty of praise for them and their country. Really anything the customers want she is encouraged to provide.</p><p>It makes her skin crawl. It’s an exclusive café that serves only the most elite of Paris. The elite just happen to include a lot of Nazis lately. And that is all it takes to make America hate the job. She’s supposed to inspire fear and awe in the hearts of her enemies, but they only thing she’s inspiring is a totally different reaction occurring much lower in them.</p><p>But America couldn’t really afford to turn down the job. There is only so long she can wander around the streets of Paris looking for a way out of the country. She needs funds and she needs people to trust her. They can’t do that unless they think they know her.</p><p>The restaurant is quiet right now. There’s an old man at the corner table by the window and the cook is doing tonight’s prep work. America has already wiped down the tables and the place looks spotless. It’s not the best shift but she’s new and shouldn’t be making requests anyways. She’s keeping her head as low as she can.  </p><p>She slips her hand down into her pocket. She fingers the spine of the notebook she took from the house. She glances around and pulls it out. She hasn’t given it much thought but there’s nothing to do at the moment. She flips it open and takes a peek into her body’s life. Jean’s handwriting is small and round. Cute if not practical. Her Es and Os look very similar. There’s a list of chores in the front, a recipe follows, and there’s a stanza of poetry in small, neat English.</p><p>
  <em>On the golden images</em>
</p><p>
  <em>On the warriors’ arms</em>
</p><p>
  <em>On the kings’ crown</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I write your name</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>A love poem, America decides and moves on. The rest of the notebook is mostly filled will doodles of flowers, birds, and cats. She traces her fingers along the lines.</p><p>She searches under the counter and finds a small pencil, no longer than her longest finger. She twirls it lazily in her between her fingers. Then taps it against the pages. It’s only a notebook. But all America has of Jean are papers, and the majority of them are lies. It’s tempting, too tempting, to take this small piece of her and make it her own.</p><p>She adds a small sunflower. Somehow Jean’s flowers look soft and peaceful and America’s looks like it would flee the page if it could. She sweeps the lead in a long arch and branches smaller strokes from it. She tilts the page to accommodate her growing wings.</p><p>“Are you an artist, Miss?”</p><p>The tip of the pencil pierces the page. America’s head snaps up. She covers her surprise with a smile. She shuts the little book with a snap. It’s not going to hide anything but having it open won’t do any good. “Good afternoon sir,” she aggressively chirps.</p><p>The German soldier before her nods and smiles indulgently back at her. He’s younger than most officers but probably in his twenties and he shows no sign of looking away from America. His light brown eyes burrow into hers. The eyes are the window into the soul, England’s voice in her mind is crisp and cautious. She doesn’t know if she believes that, but she does know that looking into someone’s eyes is the best way of knowing if they’re about to throw a punch and she doesn’t want him to see a thing.</p><p>His thin lips part to laugh at her. “It seems like every café and alleyway in Paris is filled with artists. I am a lover of the arts myself. I must say I prefer the classics. Although, from what I saw I think I can say that I like your style.”</p><p>She doesn’t like the way he smiles. She can tell there’s a lie hiding behind his teeth even if she doesn’t know what it is. The thump in her chest reminds her that she’s not safe here. It urges her to lie back to him. Everything the Germans can learn is something they’ll try to weaponize against her.</p><p>She flutters her lashes. “Most of them aren’t mine.”</p><p>He tilts his head. “A friend’s then?”</p><p>“Ye-yes.” It’s so rude to ask a nation about their past body. Even if she’s asked England a few questions before she finds that she doesn’t like being questioned herself. She glances away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear.</p><p> “Well you might want to tell them to look into art school sometime. I’m sure they’ll do marvelously.”</p><p>She sucks in a breath and straightens her spine. She thinks, she’ll never do anything again, like so many innocent people in this mess. “Me too,” she agrees sweetly. “Would you like a seat, monsieur?”</p><p>“Yes, madam.”</p><p>“Mademoiselle,” America corrects automatically. “If you please, sir,” she adds quickly. His smile grows wider. She leads him to a table near the windows and serves him without any further uneasy moments.</p><p>She’ll have to remember to be more careful with her daydreaming and the notebook in the future. But she doesn’t care to the remember the German soldiers. They’re all ranked much lower than anyone she’s used to working with and even the threat of danger inherent in being behind enemy lines seems dulled in Paris. There’s not nearly as much gunfire and sirens as she has gotten used to. In fact, she may have forgotten the soldier with the thin lips and prying brown eyes entirely if he had not come back.</p><hr/><p>It’s a beautiful day in Paris. The sun is bright and the breeze sweeping between the buildings is keeping it on the right side of cool. The only fault she can find is the Nazi flags shifting above her head like a bleeding wound.</p><p>America peers into a shop window. A bittersweet smile rises to her lips. The shelves are nearly bare but what remains is beautiful. There are brightly colored ribbons, high heeled shoes with thick soles of cork, and some truly impressive hats, which remind her of the towering hair Marie Antoinette had sported before they took off her head. </p><p>America stifles a giggle. You can take Paris, abuse her citizens, but they’ll die before they let go of their sense of fashion.</p><p>“Mademoiselle? Ahh it is you. How is the little artist today?” A hand skims her shoulder and brushes against her hair. What the fuck? America jerks away from the window. The soldier touching her smiles clearly not bothered that he startled her. Another two soldiers flank him from behind. He looks familiar but she can’t place him. She does recognize the decorations on his uniform.</p><p>She gives him a friendly smile. “I’m doing well, Lieutenant. Is there anything I can do for you?”</p><p>“You can give me a moment of your time.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“Are you looking for something special today?”</p><p>“Oh, nothing in particular. I’m just looking at the moment.”</p><p>“Has anything caught your eye?”</p><p>“The hats.” He moves closer to peer into the window. She slips out from under his hands. She looks at the men still waiting. They look back at her with the kind of attention that comes from boredom. She has to fight the urge to frown, she can’t just walk away.</p><p>“Ah, yes. They are rather extravagant.” His tone makes it clear that extravagant is not a complement. “Have you created any great works of art lately?”</p><p>“Art?” It clicks then. She recognizes him from the café. “Oh, ah not yet.”</p><p>He pats her on the back then slowly, so he can run his hand down and she can feel every finger. “Do not fret Fräulein. Someday your name will be up in lights.” She has always liked seeing America in lights with fireworks everywhere. Year after year and it hasn’t gotten old. She can’t help the pleased noise she makes. “What is-“</p><p>One of the men behind them speaks up. “Richter, we must go.”</p><p>Lieutenant Richter leans away frowning. He reaches for her hand and America does not resist. His lips brush against her knuckles. She smiles like that doesn’t repulse her. “Goodbye Lieutenant.”</p><p>“For now, mademoiselle. I will see you soon.”</p><p>The soldiers turn sharply and march off. America lingers on the sidewalk long enough for them to disappear around the corner. The wind bites through her clothing. She shivers and ends her window shopping immediately.</p><hr/><p>Shake. Stir. Swish your hips. Service with a smile. Easy breezy. Men are ruled by their passions, America. Why was she hearing all this in France’s voice? Smile, America.</p><p>The café is busy tonight. Each table is filled with men, a few of them have women clinging to their arms. She has to twist her hips to fit between the tables. The men do not make it easy on her. She frequently feels fingers brushing against her skirt.</p><p>As she walks by one table a hand grasps her elbow. She stops short. If she punches them, they’d probably jail her. She won’t get away with accidently elbowing them in the face either. Frankly, she’s so tired of their entitled hands and she’d rather break some fingers and help herself to a drink than smile back again. She braces herself for some serious bullshit and flips her hair in that pretty way girls do when they definitely want to hear every word you have to say and not stab you in the eye with your own fork. “Lieutenant, is there something I can get for you? Another drink?”</p><p>Lieutenant Richter smiles at her. “You must give me your name, Mademoiselle. We have met too often for you not to.”</p><p>Jeez it’s like you keep coming to my job and I happen to be doing my job here. Fancy that, America thinks. She bats her eyes, brushes her hair back, and looks down like he’s just given her the greatest praise of her life. “You flatter me, sir.”</p><p>“Not at all. Come now, your name?” The rest of his table are either ignoring him in favor of their drinks or are watching them with amusement. They have no intention of pulling him away this time. He pulls her around the table, so he doesn’t have to crane his neck. His hand stays on her arm.</p><p> “It is impolite to ask for someone’s name without giving yours.”</p><p>“I thought you heard it last we met.”</p><p>“Only your last name.”</p><p>“And you wish to be more familiar.” He leans further back in his chair. His smile is disgustingly smug. “Hans Richter.”</p><p>She bites her lips as her eyes sweep over him. She has a thought then, something about his posture sparking. That pose is all too familiar and yet it’s so different than what she’s used to. Oh, fuck he is flirting with me. I flipped my hair way too much.</p><p>“Ann Beaulieu.” She’s been using Anna mostly for its convenience. It’s a common name, easy to believe and easy to forget. She’d half hoped if it would feel like her and it hasn’t yet. And now she knows she won’t be keeping any of that name.</p><p>His fingers rub against the sensitive skin of her elbow. “Anna,” he repeats savoring her name. He releases her. She returns to her actual job. She darts from table to table carrying drinks and small plates. Every time she stirs a drink the spoon knocks against the side of the glass to harshly. If she had her normal strength, she would have shattered every glass.</p><p>He orders more drinks, but he doesn’t touch her again. He doesn’t have to. She can feel his eyes on her all night.</p><p>The lieutenant becomes a regular. He takes his time with each visit. Every glass he drinks slowly, the ice melts completely before he’s finished. He never lets one visit pass without talking to her. She’s sure her coworkers would complain about them having to take over her workload while he talks, but none of them are willing to risk an officer’s displeasure. He complements her hair. He asks her what her favorite artist is, her favorite wine. She can only think of ones from California vineyards. It makes her home sick.</p><p>She’s not making any progress in getting back.</p><p>England has networks in Paris. She knows that. America knows a lot about the Allied efforts in France. She knows codes, how to use just about every piece of artillery in the Allied forces, and detailed military plans. She’s even gotten to play with some of new gadgets that her men had designed for their covert operations. England’s networks would have radios and maybe weapons and that should be enough to get her started. But how to get in contact with the underground with nothing to work with that…that’s proving to be a bit of a challenge.</p><p>England will never let her live this down. For at least the next hundred years, England’ll bring it up. Every time she wants to do something he’ll peer over the rim of some stupid porcelain teacup and sneer, ‘Oh is that so? Do you recall that time in 1943 when I suggested flying a raid over enemy territory may perhaps have some risk?’ And then he’ll take a sip just long enough for her to start a rebuttal before he just keeps lecturing like she hasn’t said a word. Like he had never done the same thing. God, he’s going to make her ears bleed with boredom.</p><p>She misses the old days when you could just go some obscure village, ask where to join up and be gone before the authorities had the chance to even hear about it.</p><p>Mr. Handsy Hans is either oblivious to her increasing frustrations or he doesn’t care.</p><p>He comes in one day looking particularly smug. He takes his time. Letting her work until he decides to bother her.  He gives her a look, one squinting eye and a raised brow. She’s almost grateful he’s decided not to whistle for her. She can either come at the look or he’ll touch her, well more than he would anyways.</p><p>“Anna, I have something for you.” God don’t let him offer her his dick. “There’s going to be a party held by commander. I plan to attend and bring you with me.”</p><p>“Wha?” Her mouth hangs open. He laughs. Oh, of all the things he could have said this hadn’t crossed her mind. Seriously what kind of game was he playing here?</p><p>“I’ll pick you up on Saturday at five.” She flushes with rage. How dare he? She has’t said yes. And why should she? He’s just some random officer. They were like dime a dozen in the city. And his nose is like freakishly narrow and his hands are always cold. Plus, he was an asshole Nazi, she’s America, and therefore far out of his league. Not that he knew she was the literal embodiment of an enemy nation but he should at least know she was far out of his league. Oh lordy, she wants to knock his teeth out.</p><p>She bites her check until she tasted blood. “But I don’t have anything to wear. Sir, I will embarrass you!”</p><p>He laughs like she’s being charmingly naive. “I’m afraid the only embarrassment will be if I have to admit that I let such a beautiful woman escape me.” Escape him? Escape? Really? That’s the word he goes for. Could he have possibly come up with something a little less creepy in between all his fascist ideas. He doesn’t even look like he’s doubting that her answer will be anything less than what he wants. “How will I ever face my men again?”</p><p>America pulls her serving tray to her chest like it’s a shield. “How will I ever face them at all looking like this? No sir, I must insist, I can not go. I look as if I’ve been sleeping in fields.”</p><p>“You look fine to me. I have not seen one woman behind these doors who is not beautiful.”</p><p>“I look fine enough here. But not fine enough for an officer’s party.”</p><p>His voice dips lower. “No one would dare.”</p><p> “They would-”</p><p>He looks far less amused now. His already thin lips have thinned even further until they almost disappear from his face. His voice is firm and just loud enough to make it clear that she is going to listen and obey.  “Come with me. I will get you something to spare your sentiments.”</p><p>“Please excuse me sir,” one of her coworker’s interrupts timidly. Her voice is as soft and wispy as her brown hair. He doesn’t move to look at her. “May I borrow Anna for a moment? I promise to have her back to you quickly.”</p><p>He looks at her from the corner of his eye. He frowns and her coworker keeps smiling and fluttering her eyelashes. “What for?”</p><p>She moves closer, like she is going to tell him a secret but not nearly close enough to hide anything. “She’s a bit shy. You’d never know looking at her. I’m just going to talk her up a bit for you. I assure you she’ll be much more receptive when I come back.”</p><p>“I do not need you to help me.”</p><p>“My good sir, I’m helping her. She’s just got a bit of nerves. We’ll pick up a drink for you two on the way back, on the house of course.”</p><p>As soon as he nods, her nails bite into America’s arm. They walk quickly across the café’s floor. Behind the door to the kitchen the girl rounds on America. She jabs a finger towards her face. “Have you lost your mind?”</p><p>“It’s not my job to date him.” Her boss had stressed that she was not a prostitute, they were not a brothel, they were a classy establishment.</p><p>The girl huffs. “It’s also not your job to make him angry. Accept his invitation, take his gifts, and sell them on the black market for all I care, but you’re going. And leave your morals at the door. You’ll be much better off.”</p><p>“I am not going anywhere with him.”</p><p>“And why not, because he’s German?” Her eyes dare America to say anything anti-Nazi. And oh, can America think up a few, but doing so would end up with her in a jail cell and it’s very hard to fight a war from there.</p><p>She squeezes her tray. She can start to feel the metal buck in her hands. Her strength is coming back, slowly. She slowly releases her breath as her loosens her grip. She looks into her reflection. It’s clear and metal is undamaged. “I hate his nose. He’s far too ugly for me.”</p><p>The girl laughs mockingly. “I assure you his money looks and spends just as well as any other mans.” She scoops up a glass and pours some of the good stuff into it. She shoves the drink at America until she has no choice other than to take it or have it spill down her front. The girl leaves her standing there, glaring into the red wine. She’s never been one to just do as she’s told. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.</p><p>She crosses back to the Lieutenant, cursing him all the way. She hands him the drink with a smile. He smiles back at her and draws her close to him. She comforts herself with thoughts of ripping his neck open with her teeth.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>AN: I should have noted this last chapter but Beaulieu translates to lovely place, which sounds good for the New World.</p><p>The poem in Jean’s diary is a section of La Marseillaise, the French National Anthem.</p><p>The poster described is available for viewing at the Virtual Holocaust Museum. </p><p>Students were given more freedom to travel and they made up a good chunk of carriers for resistance groups.</p><p>Hitler was totally going to level Paris but was convinced not to because basically they could show it off. They put a lot of work into showing how happy the French were under German occupation for propaganda. </p><p>There were a lot of shortages on a lot of luxury goods due to the war, pretty much everywhere. There was a weird movement that it was woman’s civic duty to look pretty and keep moral up and also to contribute to the war effort, which makes prefect sense since those expectations are still hanging about. There are a lot of beauty tricks women used. Reusing and repairing were very common. Using tea bags to dye your legs to make it seem like you had stocking were one of them. Like every source I saw talked about how much women missed stockings.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Little Party Never Killed Nobody</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter was delayed because of *gestures at 2020*<br/>Good news is that writing this gets fun from here on out.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>America swayed back and forth. The blood was starting to rush to his head and his leg was starting to tingle. No doubt it would be numb soon if he didn’t fix his blood flow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was so worth it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was a first time for everything, and this was America’s first-time parachuting. He had flown before, but this wasn’t the same thing at all. It had been so awesome. He hadn’t been able to stop laughing from the moment he had jumped out of the plane. The fields below had looked so small, almost cute. His stomach had flopped and dropped around inside him. The wind had felt wonderful as it tugged playfully at his clothes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>America let out a wordless cheerful sound. He wanted to do it again and again and again. So, first things first, time to get down. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He twisted his body and felt the ropes tangle around him. He twisted in the opposite direct and the ropes bit into his thigh. He craned his neck upwards and turned his head this way and that. Something had to be tangled further up. He wiggled again. Leaves and twigs fell into his face. His right eye started to water.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Snickering started up behind him. That sounded like…Oh come on! It couldn’t be. But he knew that stifled laughter all too well.  “Fuck. England is that you?” The laughing voice cleared its throat but didn’t answer. America kicked his leg back and forth until he had forced his body to turn. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yep. It was him. The dick. “It seems that you have landed yourself in an interesting position America.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What the fuck are you doing here?” England lifted his chin. Oh great, he’s getting on his high horse, America thought with no small amount of distain. He’d hated that look even when he was a little loyal colony.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Before we get to that, I would think that the more pressing issue is your state of captivity.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t need your help.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Are you sure? I must say seeing an ally getting captured by a tree is not the most assuring thing.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, shut the hell up.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well if you’re really so certain…” England turned his head to look back at his stoic guards. “Would you get me a chair and a cup of tea?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Seriously? You’re just going to sit there?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well you’ve refused my assistance. What choice do I have?” His expression was so smug.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>America could rip himself out of his constraints, but the ropes would be beyond saving. He wiggled and writhed in his parachute prison. England’s tea arrived and he could see him smugly sipping away. After the first cup he brought out a small book and occasionally laughed at either the words or America. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“England.” The nation didn’t look up from his book but hummed an acknowledgment. America’s face was red and sweat was getting into his eyes. “Could…do you have a knife?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I certainly do,” he said making no move to get up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Could you bring it here?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I suppose I could be compelled to assist. If you-“</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Never mind.” England looked up at him. He reached out and tugged one of the ropes. America fell, spinning wildly. His foot knocked into something on the way down. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Be careful,” England hissed. America lifted his face from the ground, spitting out a leaf as he did so. England was clutching his face, blood gushing between his fingers. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’s not my fault.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>England moved his hands away revealing his broken nose. “Like hell it’s not.”</em>
</p><hr/><p>The dress is waiting for her at the café on Friday. All her coworkers take a peek and suggest accessories. They are outraged to hear that she has none. What kind of Frenchwoman is she they insist. She could have at least brought a bit of ribbon, something white or black would go with almost anything. “I’m the kind that does not let her family starve,” she fires back. And that is the end of that.</p><p>America is probably the last to see the dress. It’s red with a hemline that’s just this side of modest. It leaves most of her back exposed. When she slides into it her cleavage peaks above the neckline. There’s matching shoes too. Just what are they paying these soldiers, she wonders. Or do ou only have to use ration cards when you’re not murdering people?</p><p>She feels like she will freeze without her old coat, so she brings it along. She knows that it’s far too plain for the occasion and that’s only a bonus.</p><p>After she is dressed her coworkers leave her at a small table by the door. If they need it for customers, they will kick her out, but the manager doesn’t want someone lingering by the door like a beggar.</p><p>The lieutenant arrives right on time in a car. It’s a nice one, that stands out among the few essential business related vehicles that French citizens are still allowed to drive. IT even looks like it’s been washed recently.</p><p>He’s driving the car himself. No lackies for him tonight. She feels like she should lean down to the window and make a joke of it, that’s what she would normally do, but this is far from normal. So, she slips inside the car without a word.</p><p>“Good evening mademoiselle. You look lovely tonight.” He straightens his collar because god forbid a German man have wrinkles anywhere. When he moves she catches the scent of his cologne. It almost makes her choke. He must have poured half the bottle on himself.</p><p>She takes stock of him and mocks everything she can in her mind. He has helmet hair, oh no wait, it’s the German fashion to have so much gel your hair it doubles as a helmet. He does have an ugly nose, they’ve seen better ones on hounds. Oh no, quite your thoughts America, he might be able to hear them his ears are so big. Plus, he’s a fascist murdering invader. How charming.</p><p>Ok most of that was petty but it’s the only thing keeping a smile on her face.</p><p>“Good evening Lieutenant. Where are we going today?”</p><p>“A party, or have you forgotten?,” he attempts to tease back. He starts driving down the road. She doesn’t look back, but she glances at the mirror. She may hate working there, but she’d take a shift at the café any day over this. She glances back to see his ogling her. A spike of anger surges in her guts. “This party is being hosted by one of my superiors. It’s a rather small one to celebrate our success.”</p><p>“Your success? Isn’t it a bit late to celebrate the…” Her tongue stumbles. How do can she politely say they’re all a bunch of overconfident oppressive bastards? She’d never needed to refine the skill of speaking utter bullshit before. “Agreement?”</p><p>He chuckles deeply. “It would be a little late to celebrate our partnership with France.” So that’s what they’re calling it. “We are celebrating a victory over our common enemy.”</p><p>“The Allies?” America is amazed that her voice is steady. The German papers are always quick to declare that England will soon fall, that they’ve won a great victory even if it’s the furthest thing from the truth. Not seeing a single report on her desk hasn’t been as relaxing as she’d thought it would be at headquarters. It turns out ignorance is just fuel for fear.</p><p>“Yes. We’ve captured some of their spies.” The growing knot of worry in America’s stomach alleviates. A spy is a valuable thing and loosing anyone is never good, but it’s the best news she can hope for. He continues oblivious to her feelings. “The rats lurk even in civilized cities such as this. It’s why we have curfews, to protect the citizens from the horrors of war.”</p><p>Yeah, I’m sure that’s why you do it.</p><p>They arrive at a grand town house. The lieutenant tries to open the car door for her but she’s already out before he can get around the car. A man comes to take the keys from him. The Lieutenant smiles widely at him and stretches his arm around her. His cufflinks scrape against her skin painfully as he does so. Another servant takes their coats as they enter.</p><p>Her eyes snag on a painting in the entry way. She knows she’s seen it before. “Ahh Anna, I see your attention has already been stolen away from me. I suppose I can forgive it this once, seeing the focus of your attention. You’re a true artist at heart and our host has excellent taste,” he says as his chest swells with pride. America makes some noise of agreement. “Many in our empire do. The Furher himself is an artist.” He’s also a thief, she thinks.</p><p>“Is that why you brought me here?”</p><p>“No. I brought you here because you are such elegant company. I knew you would enjoy yourself though because of your mutual interests.” That would mean a lot more to her if he wasn’t looking down her dress at the moment. No, actually it would still mean absolutely nothing to her but she’d still like him to keep his hands off her. His fingers run through her hair. Oh, that gives her an idea. Hans, Mr. Hands Off Hans, that’s what she’s going to call him from now on.</p><p>He tucks her under his arm as if he’s protecting her from the depraved world he’s dragging her into. He leads her into the party.</p><p>She’s never been super familiar with Germany. She had always spent more time with Prussia. She’d taken him to a bit of a buzzkill, like England but impossible to trick into having fun. Until today she’d never seen anything to contradict that assumption. Now she’s seen too much.</p><p> Judging by Mr. Hands-Off’s expression she must be making some very amusing faces. Damn her puritanical upbringing. She is sure her mouth must have been hanging open for at least thirty minutes already. She’d only caught a glimpse, but she is fairly sure she’d seen an orgy in the parlor. What else would have that much bare skin visible?</p><p>His hand edges from her shoulder to her waist. “I need a drink! I’m parched, simply going to dry up,” she declares. Her voice is several octaves too high to pass for casual.</p><p>Hans laughs deeply, like a dick, and squeezes her closer to him. “Pardon me, Mademoiselle.” Thankfully, he heads off to fetch her a drink. It occurs to her as she watches him that she should be worried about just what he brings back to her. It seems like she’ll have to rely on her slowly returning nation strength.</p><p>She takes this opportunity to wander a little farther away. She finds the food table. England would say something snarky about her ability to always find the food. There are little French cheeses, a full ham with fruit in its mouth and everything, some gross bug things France always insists is a delicacy wasted on them. It’s more food in one place than she’s seen since the war started. Yet here these Nazi’s are feasting in the heart of the country they’re starving. She’s bitterly unsurprised.</p><p>Her feelings don’t dampen her appetite. She inhales at least five pastries without anyone being the wiser. She’s been ravenous for decades, hungry since birth, and she hasn’t a full meal in this body yet. Ration cards were too valuable a currency to use for food, not when she had nothing. But she needs food to adapt to this body and it’s already taken too long. Plus, everything she eats is something that the Germans are denied.</p><p>Hands-Off Hans finds her all too soon and doesn’t give her much time to enjoy the champagne he places in her hands before he drags her to the dance floor. It’s crowded with officers and their ladies. He twirls her around the floor.</p><p>There’s no set rules to taking a new body but his presumptions still piss her off. She’s always tried to save her first experiences in a new body for friends and allies. And here he is just selfishly taking them. And all of it is just so he can brag.</p><p>She’s not even having fun.  His fingers keep squeezing her hands too tightly. Her curls keep falling into her eyes. Her shoes pinch her feet with every turn.</p><p>So she takes what revenge she can. She tries to step on his feet every time they’re in range. She whips her arms out for dramatic flair, aiming every time at whoever had the most medals nearby. Their barely concealed annoyance only makes her smile brighter. Who could have known she could have so much fun with Nazi’s? She still wishes she could be back.</p><p>Handsy Hans clears his throat. “Where did you learn to dance Anna?”</p><p>“My brother taught me.” Technically it’s true, but in recent decades she’s learned all the best dances straight from her people. She doesn’t know if England knows how to jitterbug or swing. She thinks about his straight laces and proper posture and stifles a laugh. The thought of him jumping and jiving seems impossible.</p><p>Han winces as she grinds her foot into his. “Interesting.”</p><p>“Interesting?”</p><p>“You keep trying to lead.”</p><p>She misses a step and laughs to cover it up.  “Well I guess most people I danced with didn’t like to lead very much.” Afterall she’s danced with far more women than men, unless you count the half drunken spinning they’ve done with other nations.</p><p>On a particularly vibrant spin she can’t a wince. Her shoes are really digging into her now. Unless she can get him off the dance floor, she’s bound to be bleeding all over it before the night ends. By some miracle, she’s saved.</p><p>Hands-Off Hans turns as a hand lands on his shoulder and starts practically groveling before a man with round cheeks smiles. Well we all know who’s on the bottom of the totem pole here, she thinks with a smile.</p><p>“Richter,” he says with open arms. Handsy returns the greeting with even more enthusiasm. They begin to speak rapid fire German over her head without so much as a look at her or the other woman on the newcomer’s arm.</p><p>The doe eyed woman smiles at her. Her smile is lazy. She leans in so close America can smell something sweet on her breath. “Oh my, your hair,” she exclaims. Her French is purely Parisian, “It’s like spun gold.” Then she without further ado she buries her hands in America’s hair. “And you lips, tell me what shade you’re wearing.”</p><p>America winces when the lady’s fingers tangle. “I’m not wearing anything.”</p><p>“Oh now, that is simply not fair.”</p><p>“I’m sorry?” The woman laughs. The older officer turns his attentions to them. The woman tucks herself into his side. Hans follows his example and pulls her close.</p><p>“Hopefully the British will see sense soon.” The officer finishes as he turns his attention to America. He continues in thickly accented French. “Ahh Fräulein. A beautiful girl such as yourself brings such light to a gathering like this.”</p><p>Hans laughs agreeably. “Yes. She has ensnared me.”</p><p>“Well then,” the other man takes America’s hand and kisses it lightly. “Being your slave, what should I do but tend, upon the hours and times of your desire?”</p><p>“Shakespeare,” America says.</p><p>“Ah! You recognized it. You must be an educated young lady too. You have brought a lovely companion tonight.” The last comment is directed back to Hans. America steams.  Do I know of The Bard that England never shuts up about, please. If there’s any human he found as worthy of admiration aside from his monarchs it would be the Bard. He always gets glowy about him. When they were a colony, he’d act out his plays after chores and he’d recite them like lullabies as he put them to bed.</p><p>                “If you say so sir,” she says as demurely as she can.</p><p>The men chuckle along but the woman frowns ever so slightly. She gives America a full look over. “Oh darling, your feet. Are you bleeding?”</p><p>America shuffles awkwardly. “Oh it’s nothing. Well worth the pain and all that.”</p><p>The woman pouts prettily and turns to Handsy. “You must make sure she gets home safe. Be a gentlemen and walk her to the door.”</p><p>Hands-Off Hans laughs. He pulls her close to him again. He’s like a shark that’s finally realized there’s blood in the water. He doesn’t even acknowledge the woman said anything. Instead he whispers into her ear. “Perhaps you’ll be willing to keep me company for a bit longer than tonight.” The words sound innocent enough by themselves but his tone makes it all very clear. Disgusting.</p><p>America takes a deep breath to keep her temper under control. He’s not worth it. He’s just a pawn in all this, won’t even make it into a history book. At least his cologne is finally starting to wear off. It’s actually not that bad when it’s not trying to burn her nostrils.</p><p>She feels her smile tighten as she finally recognizes the scent. It’s familiar. It’s French.</p><p>France had been wearing it the last time she saw him. He had ruffled her hair and cooed at her like they were a little colony again. ‘Amerique, look at you. England’s women must not be able to keep their hands off of you.’</p><p>‘Some French too,’ America had teased back.</p><p>‘Big brother will forgive you for that comment but just this once. Since it has been so long since I’ve seen you.’</p><p>Her stomach rolls. “Excuse me, Sir. I’m afraid I must refresh myself, urgently. It’s my shoes.” She leaves without planning her escape route. Hans’ chortles follow her until she loses them with the rest of the party’s noise.</p><hr/><p>America leans back against the door. Then slowly slides to the floor. She’d leave the infiltration and spying to England from now on. This stuff is just too much. Seriously, it is like her tongue hurt from all that sweet talking. Her feet too. America brings her left foot up and rubs the spot just before her shoe begins. Her hand comes away with light smears of blood.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, she around her hiding place. A dark red Nazi flag looms above her. From its spot on the wall it dominates the office. She scoffs. Well it’s a good thing they have that flag here too. It’s not enough to have them lining the streets. Why if they didn’t have at least one flag in every room the soldiers might forget what they are doing in France and decide to abandon their posts to take a dip in the Sienne.</p><p>That flag, America thinks scornfully. She doesn’t like the look of it. Of course, nothing can match the beauty of the stars and stripes but this thing…It’s overbearing. It’s dark and bloody. It’s bold simplicity marks it as a battle flag. It smoothers any light that might slip into the room into nothingness. Really a flag shouldn’t feel this…They’re not scared of it. Heroes don’t get scared over inanimate objects even enemy flags.</p><p>It still makes something inside her churn uneasily.</p><p>She pulls herself up and makes her way across the office. Before the flag she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. This whole war has made her uneasy. Her fingers hover over the flag tracing the stitching. In a rush of spontaneous defiance, she seizes it. She pulls and rips it from the wall. The curtain rod bursts away from the wall and clatters on the floor.</p><p>She glares at the empty space remaining. Of course, what else was she expecting? Freshly cut wood boards up the window. She scoffs and drops the flag. It lands on her feet before she kicks it away. Stupid Nazi’s. She can’t even look at the stars because of them. Not even in London.</p><p>She balances on one foot and rubs the back of her heel trying to relieve a little of the tension. She closes her eyes drawing star charts. Her body drifts backwards. Her legs hit the desk behind her. Her fingers stretch out, following her minds eyes. She traces the straight line of Orion’s belt to Sirius. She follows the slight curve of Canis major. The cool smooth texture of her dreamed night sky disappears. Papers shift under her hand.</p><p>She looks down. She’s expecting a brief missive. A ‘Yes Sir Stupid Head, I will continue being a massive jerk all over the continent and beyond.’ Instead her heart jolts with excitement. Her eyes devour the smooth lines and bold strokes of airplane blueprints.</p><p>She hasn’t seen this one before. And she’s seen everything anyone in the Allied forces has seen. She’s burst into locked rooms, secret meetings, and company board rooms to stay absolutely, indisputably, the most knowledgeable and up to date person about anything to do with planes. Afterall, she’s the one who had made flight work in the first place, no matter what anyone else might say. It was practically her right to know. Ironically all the bursting into rooms was very much bigger problem for some people before the war broke out.</p><p>She flips the paper over and reads the notes in the margins. Then she really starts digging in. She should sit down but she’s far too excited. There’s a report on some artillery cost vs benefits stuff too which is interesting but not as <em>exciting</em>. Before she knows it, she’s consumed by her task.</p><p>She reaches down to the drawers. They rattle as she tugs but don’t open. “Oh, come on.” She stomps a foot. Patience, America. All good things come in time she hears the memory of England say. Or maybe it was Canada or her president. Everyone was always saying she should be patient. She doesn’t want patience. She wants to kick some Nazi butt and do other hero stuff.</p><p>Heroes didn’t pick locks. Except that one time she had. Ok, heroes didn’t often pick locks and she doesn’t have her tools with her. Uh, this takes so much more effort in a new body. She’d been able to pop open a safe with no effort, without even realizing it before. There’d been some boring meetings about the security concerns over that. She’s been in so many, too many, boring meetings lately. She understands caution and planning. She <em>loves</em> it when one of her plans take an enemy by surprise, but she needs to actually do something. She wants to lead hands on. This is exactly what she had in mind. Ok she’d still prefer more gunfire, explosions, and badassery but this’ll do.</p><p>She pulls at it again. She can hear the contents smack against the front. It moves a bit more. She brings her foot up to brace it on the desk. Balance and leverage is the key here. She pulls as she pushes her foot outward. It bursts free with a pop and a crash. America lands among the freed papers.</p><p>America bites down on her lip to contain her smile. Oh, imagine England’s face when I come back with this. Suck it England! He spent so much time and effort on his spy networks and here she is with blueprints in her hands. She is a natural at this stuff.</p><p>She’s kneeling on the floor with papers all around her. Some of it is definitely coded. She glances up at the desk. Her fingers itch to try a cipher or two. She jumps into the big leather chair. She wiggles this way and that in her excitement. She snatches up some loose paper and gets started. She bounces a leg up and down, leaning closer and closer to the papers as she reads. Her eyes dance between the code and her chicken scratch.</p><p>She is pulled from her frenzy by the click of the door.</p><p>Three men in heavily decorated uniforms blink back at her just as surprised. America’s lips part but she has nothing ready to say. She is surrounded by highly classified documents, ink stains from copying down segments are smeared across her hands. What she’s been up to is obvious The soldier’s faces begin to take on a mix of red and pumice.</p><p>Could she jump through the window? If the boards weren’t there, definitely. Although, as is, this body won’t be able to get back up afterwards. Their flag lays crumpled on the floor…she may have stepped on it. Yeah… this isn’t good. She smiles broadly at them as they start to move towards her.</p><p>“Fuck.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hitler wanted to be an artist but wasn’t accepted into university for it. So when he began destroying peoples’ lives one of the many things he did was steal artwork. As a chain reaction, it became very fashionable to also collect art. You’ve probably heard of workers at the Louvre evacuating everything they could before Hitler took Paris. Things didn’t always work out like that and some stolen works are actually still missing. There are works from Degas, Cézanne, Caravaggio, Monet, Van Gogh, and Raphael that are still missing, and that is not an exhaustive list.</p><p>The Shakespeare above is form Sonnet 57.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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